From Kitchen Tables to the Capitol: How I Became an Education Organizer & Lobbyist

By Sarah Harris | Appalachian Education Advocates

I grew up in a family where politics lived at the kitchen table, not as ideology, but as responsibility. My father worked in energy policy through the U.S. Department of Energy and later with the West Virginia Miner’s Health, Safety, and Training. Policy wasn’t abstract in our house. It was about the air people breathed, the water they drank, and whether workers came home safe at the end of the day.

As a kid and young adult, I worked alongside him in small, unglamorous ways: canvassing for signatures in support of the Clean Air Act, phone banking for candidates, tagging along to meetings where adults talked about things that mattered, and later interning under him, working on mine safety investigations and organizing safety exhibitions. My father’s favorite memory, though, is less formal: the night I clogged with Governor Bob Wise at a dinner party. It turns out civic engagement can involve both spreadsheets and dance floors.

Still, even with those roots, I didn’t imagine myself working in policy or politics. My entry into organizing and policy wasn’t driven by ambition or professional design. It was driven by necessity. You see, I am the parent of children whose needs related to disability, mental health, and education are consistently under-supported by our state’s systems. Like so many families, I found myself navigating gaps where services should have existed, waiting lists where there should have been access, and policies that hadn’t kept up with the realities families live every day.

When the world your children need doesn’t exist, you start building it yourself.

What began as learning how to advocate for my own family slowly expanded. I learned how systems work— and how they don’t. I learned how budgets, statutes, and agency rules quietly shape people’s lives. I learned how often decisions are made without the voices of those most affected in the room; and I learned that lived experience, when paired with policy knowledge, is not a weakness, it’s a powerful asset. That realization is what shapes the organizing I am doing. At its core, my work is about refusing systems that treat children, especially marginalized children, as problems to be managed rather than people to be supported. 

Across West Virginia and the country, students with disabilities, Black and brown students, LGBTQIA+ students, and children navigating trauma or poverty are disproportionately disciplined, excluded, surveilled, or punished for behaviors that should instead be met with care, accommodation, and understanding. Too often, our schools respond to unmet needs with control: restraints instead of regulation, punishment instead of support, and policies that frame children as threats rather than as young people still learning how to exist in the world. 

I also believe deeply that free, accessible public education is a right worth defending. Protections like IDEA, FAPE, and Section 504 are not bureaucratic hurdles; they are the reason many students with disabilities can access education at all. “School Choice” may sound appealing until you realize those schools may not choose you, and that families often lose legal standing to challenge abuse or discrimination once they leave the public system. This framework matters because it allows us to hold two truths at once: public education is flawed, and it is worth protecting, especially for families already navigating systems never designed with them in mind.

That same principle underlies broader efforts toward equality, including the years of sustained organizing behind the CROWN Act, SB 109. This legislation makes clear what should never have been in question: students should not be punished, excluded, or subjected to heightened scrutiny because of their natural hair or cultural expression. These policies are not symbolic gestures; they are corrective measures. They exist to confront and undo the quiet normalization of racial bias embedded in school discipline codes and to affirm that dignity is a right, not a reward children must earn through conformity.

Yet here we are in 2026, and despite the relentless advocacy of Black organizers and committed allies, West Virginia has still failed to move this bill through both its House and Senate chambers. That delay is not neutral. It reflects a continued unwillingness to reckon with how race-based harm shows up in everyday educational policy, and it underscores why this work, and the people leading it, remain both necessary and deserving of our full support.

Over time, advocacy has become something I did not just for my children, but with my community. I found myself in rooms I never expected to enter, speaking with lawmakers, agencies, and organizations about what policies look like when they land in real lives. Not theory. Not talking points. Reality.

On January 16, 2026, I officially registered as a lobbyist in the state of West Virginia. I share that not as a title, but as a commitment. At its best, lobbying is not about influence for sale; it is about information, perspective, and accountability. It is about ensuring that policymakers hear from people who live with the consequences of their decisions long after the session ends.

I come to this work carrying both history and responsibility: the legacy of a family that believes public service matters, and the lived experience of a parent who knows what happens when systems fall short, because we are living it. I didn’t choose this path because it was easy, prestigious, or planned. I chose it because too many families are still being asked to carry more than they should, and because West Virginia deserves policies shaped by the people who call it home.

The most powerful expertise we have is lived experience, and too often it’s left outside of the meeting rooms. Appalachian Education Advocates is dedicated to changing that. To us, it’s about turning stories into strategy and community knowledge into lasting policy change. If you’ve been waiting for permission to speak up, consider this your invitation. Bring your skills, your perspective, and your truth. Together, we can build systems that actually work for the people they serve.